She glanced at me.
“Because I need money.”
That answer still had the power to surprise me.
Most employees told me they stayed because the Corvino family took care of its people.
They said it because they wanted bonuses, promotions, favors.
Tessa had shrugged the first time I asked.
“The agency charges you thirty-five dollars an hour,” she'd explained. “I get twenty-five.”
“You know what I pay?”
“I can read invoices.”
“And twenty-five dollars is worth putting up with me?”
“My sister has medical bills. Rent doesn't care whether I'm tired. Neither does the electric company.”
No fake loyalty.
No gratitude performance.
No pity.
Just truth.
She helped me transfer.
The first months after the shooting, I hated being touched.
Every hand felt like confirmation.
A hand under my knee said you cannot move this yourself.
A forearm supporting my chest said you cannot balance.
A towel being pulled beneath me said you are no longer a man who can close a door and take care of his own body.
